Page 5 of A Lullaby for Witches

“My background is actually in collections,” Augusta said. “My degree is in American material culture studies, and I concentrated in ceramics. The Old City Jail has been a great experience,” she said, only gilding the truth a little. “Working there has taught me a lot about what goes into running a historic building, but I’d really like to get back to collections. I miss working with art and objects.” It would be heaven to never have to work with the public again, to just be able to lose herself in a collection of beautiful things.

Jill shared a grin with Sharon. “You’ve come to the right place. Elijah Harlowe imported tons of porcelain in the 1820s, so we’re up to our ears in ceramics. A lot of it was improperly cataloged back in the ’80s, so that’s a big project that we’d love to see tackled. I don’t suppose you’d mind crawling around storage and seeing just what we have in there? Maybe even putting together an exhibit?”

“Honestly, that sounds like perfection,” Augusta said. She relaxed a little. She could do this. The rest of the meeting flew by, more like a back-and-forth conversation than a formal interview. With every answer, Augusta grew more confident and excited. She’d be responsible for the health of the collection, monitoring objects and writing up condition reports. She’d have a hand in helping curate special exhibits. She’d have coworkers that shared her passion. Before, the job had seemed like a fantasy; now she knew that she belonged here.

The hot air hit her like a wall as soon as she stepped outside. Instead of calling a car right away, Augusta took a walk down Tynemouth’s quaint thoroughfare. Even in the heat, the air held the hint of cool ocean spray, and the constant cries of gulls reminded her that she was only a few blocks from the water. On impulse, she followed the signs to the beach, where she slipped off her sensible ballet flats and waded into the shallow surf. Closing her eyes, she let the cold water flow and recede over her feet, a gentle and comforting rhythm. When was the last time she’d been in the ocean? The sounds of children playing and dogs barking faded into the background, and for a glorious, sun-warmed moment, it was as if the world stood still for her. A chill ran across her skin despite the heat, and from somewhere deep inside her, a voice hummed in time with the steady roll of the ocean.Home, it said.Come home.

Opening her eyes, she blinked against the glare of the sun on the water. She’d had moments of intuition before, but this was different. The voice had come from inside of her, but it wasn’t her voice. Eager to get back to the world of air-conditioning and Wi-Fi she waded back to shore, brushed off her feet and promptly forgot all about it.

4

Margaret

’Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,

’Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore

’Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave

Oh! Hard times come again no more.

—“Hard Times Come Again No More,” Traditional Folk Song

This house is my prison, but it is also my lens, a looking glass that allows me to view the physical plane. While I might not be able to observe what transpires outside these walls, I do wonder if passersby ever stay their step, their neck prickling as if being watched and look up to the windows, only to find themselves staring at nothing.

Shehears me, though. She comes as if called, and perhaps she has been called in a sense, for this place will always carry my voice in the shafts of sunlight, and my desires creaking in the wood beneath her feet. How thrilling to know that after all these years I’m still capable of casting a stone in water and experiencing a ripple. With her glasses and prim clothes, she is unassuming, mousy. If I did not know who she is and what she carries, I would not look twice at her. But something sings when she enters, a harmony to the melody that hums throughout the house.

She is hungry, though I can sense she doesn’t know for what. And I have so much to give, if only she will accept it.

For how can you hear my story and not believe that I am worthy of remembrance?

On a sharp, sunny day, with a crisp wind carrying salt and woodsmoke at my back, I ventured down to the beach in search of blood cockles.

Save for the loitering gulls and quick-footed sandpipers, usually I had the vast, rocky beach to myself. But that morning a tall, black-cloaked figure was bending over by the water’s edge, a dark slash against the pale sand. Unaccustomed to sharing the beach with anyone other than the occasional fisherman, I squared my shoulders and walked purposefully to where the figure was busy gathering something from the ground.

Despite my silent footsteps in the sand, the figure slowly unfolded and stood up at my approach, the hood of her cloak falling away to reveal a dark-skinned woman. She was dignified and beautiful, with a long, slender neck and brown doe eyes that seemed to see right into my soul. She might have been as young as thirty, or as old as fifty.

My breath caught in recognition. “I’ve seen you before. At the docks, when the dolphin was brought in,” I told her.

She raised her brows, clearly unimpressed with my introduction. “And I’m sure you’ve seen me many other places about town. I’m hardly a recluse.”

Her frank speech momentarily addled me; I was not used to my own directness being received with anything less than acquiescence. “What are you doing here?” I asked her.

“You’re not the only one who knows when the blood cockles come in.” Stooping back down, she ran her small, rusty rake into the sand, stopping to pry out the shy creatures when the metal clinked against their shells.

I watched as she continued her work, both affronted and a little amused that I was not so singular in my eccentricities as I had thought.

“What is your name?”

“Phebe Hall,” she answered, without stopping in her work.

“I’m Margaret—”

“Margaret Harlowe,” she finished for me. “Yes, I know who you are.” At my incredulous silence, she graced me with a knowing smile. “Everyone knows of Clarence Harlowe Senior’s pretty daughter and her wild ways.”

I was more than a little pleased to have my reputation precede me. After that, I could not stay away from Phebe Hall. She never turned me away, and was generous with her knowledge of herbs and the life that flourished in the tidal pools. Here was someone else who understood the tiny miracles of the world and cared not if she was seen with sandy hems or in the company of the strangest girl in town.

Soft-footed and reverent, we would convene in the woods on nights when the moon was full. Everything that I knew about womanhood I learned from her, from how to carry myself, to how to keep myself from falling with child. If only I had heeded her warnings about young men and the lies they tell. But of course, I was young and thought myself invincible.

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